Three Knocks on the Door
by Smells Like Old Spirit
Summary: 'If convenient, open the door at once. If inconvenient, open it anyway.' While in hiding, Irene Adler receives an unexpected visitor. Post TRF and sequel of sorts to 'Come With Me.'


**Disclaimer:** Sherlock, as in the show, belongs to BBC and its wonderful, brilliant people. As in the original idea, it's product of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's imagination.

**Characters/Pairings:** Sherlock/Irene.

**Rating: **T.

**A/N: **Post TRF. Sequel to _Come With Me_.

* * *

**Three Knocks on the Door**

She takes off her black pumps as soon as she arrives to her flat. This has been, however dull, a rather long day, and mostly only because of one customer who kept complaining about every detail in her room. Hence why a drink is in order before grabbing her laptop and resuming her research for the rest of the day.

This is a vodka afternoon, she decides after a quick debate, and she slips drink after drink while sitting in her black leather couch before she starts forgetting what she's even typing. In one of her lapses, she ends up in Dr Watson's blog, and then she remembers.

_16th June_

_Untitled_

_He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him._

The entry is now six months old, yet it's been only five weeks since she read it for the first time, out of foolish sentiment to know what The Detective was up to. Discovering he'd committed suicide hadn't been her idea of fun, and her heart pulled out her chest in bitter remembrance of the endless list of texts she had kept sending him all that time.

She had allowed herself to cry, if only for a night, in which she kept replaying the tender, almost reverent touch of his hands, the feel of his mouth brushing across her skin. While she'd believed at first it was due the fact he'd just rescued her of a certain death, it became evident with time she'd never felt safer as she had in his arms, as they had stayed languidly during hours in her bed.

And only when she'd stopped crying, when her resolve to get over The Detective was firm, in the form of deciding to leave Guayabitos behind her, she'd remembered the ever present notification whenever her texts had been read.

While it was possible that, either the number now belonged to someone else or the phone was kept as a sentimental token, hope grew inside her. For the first one, of course that is possible to ignore a couple of texts or missing calls, but it's ridiculous to remain detached after seventy-six texts (out of politeness, the other person should have tell her she's got the wrong number). For the second one—well, it could be either John or Mycroft. Since she knew her identity was obvious because of her chosen words, she figured John would kindly inform her of his friend's fate—while the elder Holmes would have certainly already signed her death.

Hence why, armed only with a laptop and her supposed broadband connection, she's been trying to trace his steps, then find him and follow him in whatever crazy idea that is crossing that beautiful brain of his (and it isn't only because of being with him—a part of her misses the danger of her previous life and wants to keep misbehaving).

Given her limited resources (she's dead, after all; who is she supposed to ask for help?), it's not surprising the little information she has about him. But there's something, no matter how minimal, there's evidence that points toward someone taking down what's left of Moriarty's empire (her mutual "friends" with Jim are either on jail or dead), and she can almost perceive the elegance of his work, feeling a strange pang of pride over his skill, in spite of the tragic measures he has to take.

Tonight seems to be one of those uneventful ones, however, and she's soon overwhelmed with another idea. She finds her mobile somewhere in the depths of her handbag, and types what usually would be sent in three different texts into one. _I'm in my sitting room drinking a bottle of vodka by myself. Come with me and let's have dinner._

Then she lets the phone fall into the sofa's cushions. Curled in her side, she extends her hand to close the laptop's lid, when she hears the first sounds. She distinguishes clearly between the knocks of a salesman and of her few acquaintances in Guayabitos, which is why the three rapid, solid knocks on her door stand out as atypical—not to mention, it's nearly ten o'clock. A little late for a social visit, considering how well-behaved her friends in here seem to be.

Her current glass is placed next to the laptop, a few drops of the liquor falling over it. She's cautious as she heads toward the door, emphasizing through her slightly inebriated state, that she has to look through the peephole first. It's a rule she has forgotten as the months had passed by, and she started living without having to look over her shoulder the entire time

Then the second sound comes, and it's a female sigh she recognises as hers.

Her breath is caught in her throat.

All of sudden sober, it takes a whole minute (_Hour? Day? Life?_) for her to find the strength to take a look. The figure in the other side is, obviously, reading a text, the corners of his mouth twisting up ever so slightly. _And this_, she thinks as she watches his dexterous fingers type something back, _is me finally going crazy_.

Her phone chirps, and she nearly trips as she rushes back to the couch to find it. _If convenient, open the door at once. If inconvenient, open it anyway._

She reads the text several times before returning, once again looking through the peephole. He's still there, even if there's something close to apprehension making its slow way into The Detective's long face. She stares a little longer, devouring every detail of him before any other action is performed, before she swings the door open and there's nothing but thin air in the other side.

"Irene," his deep baritone voice rumbles, "Whatever romantic notion this encounter may have had, you're ruining it by refusing to open the door. However, if I jumped into a wrong conclusion, feel free to inform what you're really expecting fro-"

In one swift movement, the door is open and she's pulling him inside aggressively. She doesn't bother closing the door, nor trying to pretend the intensity of this sentiment is a lesser one. Instead she kisses him soundly, encircling his neck with her bare arms.

It takes him for surprise, but it doesn't take much to motivate him to reciprocate the sensual dance of her tongue around his. He's still an inexpert, but that has never stopped him from trying anything at all, and his enthusiasm makes up for whatever mistakes he may commit (not that she notices any).

They separate moments later, both equally breathless and flushed, though she has the excuse of alcohol. The pink blush that radiates on top of his cheekbones is hers and solely hers, and it's exciting enough to make her kiss him passionately once again. He doesn't complain; if anything, he throws his suitcase somewhere across the room and lets his hands to roam up and down her back.

This time, when their lips part, she doesn't let her hormones to take control. Instead, she allows her eyes to wander along the length of his lean body. She supposes this is his idea of a disguise, hiding in plain sight: his hair may be clipped short, leaving only a few disgraced curls randomly placed over his head, but he looks pretty much the same, only that now he's not wearing that infamous black coat of his, nor his blue striped scarf (for which she's grateful, he'd look very odd like that on the beach).

Other people may be fooled, but then they haven't got a look into the deepest of this man's soul. They don't know what The Detective's really like, where to search in order to find him. And she was deceived, too. In spite of her attempts to locate him, there had always been the nagging thought that she might be wrong, that The Detective would be genuinely and truthfully dead. For them, that've been lost for so long, she feels now foolish for not trusting the science of them, how their bodies and minds seem to gravitate toward each other.

And so, finally seeing him with her own eyes conveys more than it possibly could. It not only enkindles her faith in the man, but in her, in them, in the fact those feelings nearly nine months before aren't a made up fact of her imagination. That this, whatever it is, is transcendental and tangible.

She knows how much he hates when the obvious is stated, yet she can't help voicing her mind blowing discovery. "You're not dead," she says with determination as she jumps at him, clinging again from his neck, pressing their bodies flushed against each other.

To his credit, he doesn't let his annoyance show, and holds her tightly. "Rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated," he comments matter-of-factly.

She laughs, and he rapidly joins her, when the ridiculousness of the situation strikes her. She's dead, he's dead, but none of them have ever felt more alive than the moment she closes the door, all laughter subsiding as their mouths collide and their hands explore each other's body without any reservations, resuming the weirdest experiment of all that started one sunny morning in her flat in Belgravia.

And as they lay awake, both trembling in the aftermath of their passion, his musician fingers tracing non-sense patterns in the planes of her stomach, she won't let herself dwell in what the ending for this will be. This is a beginning, and there's nothing more beautiful than that.

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**On a second A/N:** Forever forgive me for the ridiculous ammount of fluff in this. I'm having a rather emotional phase myself and this little idea was in the middle of all that.


End file.
